Pain
by Gambit Gordon
Summary: When the worst possible scenario is realized, when it seems like all hope is lost...perhaps all hope is not lost after all.


**Title**: Pain

**Fandom**: _American Dad!_

**Genre**: Drama, Tragedy

**Characters**: Stan, Steve

**Date**: The earliest version I have in my drive says this was written in 2010. I seem to remember writing it earlier, though, like maybe 2008 or 2009. It could be any of those dates; I don't remember anymore, unfortunately.

* * *

Stan skidded onto the scene, aiming his gun left and right. His eyes slid back and forth.

He gasped and staggered a step back, his mind reeling.

Bodies were scattered all over, the pavement stained with their blood. Everywhere he looked he saw them—skin that was beginning to turn blue; blood in and around the bullet holes that cut sharp through them; spread-eagled bodies whose limbs were in impossible positions; empty, staring eyes.

They were all very clearly dead.

"Oh, my God!"

The gun clattered from his hand as he rose.

"Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God!" He ran from one body to another—checking pulses, listening for breath, waiting for life—any sign of life.

"They're dead—why am I still doing this?"

No one answered.

He forced the thought out of his mind—they had to be alive. It wasn't possible.

A familiar face was standing out among the carnage.

His knees buckled and he slid to the ground. Debbie…? He checked her pulse.

Nothing.

He ran blindly on, more faces opening up at him.

Linda…? He checked her pulse.

Nothing.

Jeff…? He checked his pulse.

Nothing.

He ran from one body to another, their faces jumping out at him—there was Greg, and there was Toshi, and there was Principal Lewis, and there was Hayley—

He didn't even bother to check her pulse; he knew she was dead.

His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground. He burst out in sobs, not bothering to stop himself in any way. He let it

loose, the tears falling fast and free from his eyes; there was nothing he could do, and this was the end.

"Oh, my God. What have I done?"

His sobs rang through the air all night long, but there was no one there to hear them.

* * *

Stan Smith was alone.

Pain infiltrated into his mind.

They were gone. He hadn't even needed to check their pulses—they were dead, completely dead. They weren't the only ones; most of the residents of Langley Falls were dead—no, all the residents of Langley Falls were dead—if the bodies that had been strewn any which way around the square and the buildings with their wrecked furniture, broken windows, and blood-spattered walls were anything to go by.

They were gone, every single last one of them.

There was death everywhere, and he let it out for a long time—hours, he supposed, but as far as he could tell they were hours that didn't end, hours that went on forever, hours that were spent crying over something that would never know he had. It was death, all of it, and everyone and everything was gone. The people—the ones he'd lived with and with whom he would now never make contact again—were dead. The people—the ones he'd known for a good portion of his life, the ones who had meant nothing and everything to him—were dead. The people—the ones he'd loved, the ones he'd never abandon in any situation, the ones he'd die for without hesitation—were dead.

Pain surged through him.

His family was gone, their bodies the only thing left of them that he'd be able to remember them by—and even those didn't count; eventually they'd be gone, dust blown over scenic views or rotting corpses buried under the ground. His family was gone, and only his memories would keep them alive—they were dead, gone, and they'd never come back. Nothing would ever be the same anymore—he'd never be able to return to life knowing that the burden of their deaths lying hard on his shoulder, a burden he'd never be able to bear completely. His family was gone, and he'd never see them again after their bodies were gone forever—never argue with them, never hug them, never ignore them, never talk with them, never love them again.

Pain forced itself through his mind. He was still crying as freely as ever, but the tears were hot, angry tears of shame and guilt—extreme guilt. It was his fault they'd died—his complete, entire fault, his fault alone, his own damn fault. It was his fault that he'd left Langley Falls at the last moment to go on a mission, his fault he hadn't been careful enough and he'd wasted his cell phone's last energy buying take-out when he hadn't had enough money to buy a lunch, his fault that he'd been constipated in the bathroom and had caused he and his co-workers to catch a flight fifteen minutes too late. It was his fault that he'd caused a delay at the airport when he'd insisted that a suspicious-looking group of teenagers be examined countless times for drugs, his fault that he'd never seen the mysterious figures who he presumed had been creeping around Langley Falls when he'd arrived at the airport, his fault he'd never bothered taking any precautions to protect his family from his job.

It was his fault—all his fault. There was nothing that could be done now, and it was all his fault.

Pain pushed through him, reminding him that his family hadn't been the only ones who'd died.

It was his fault they'd died, every single last one of them—his fault, his entire damn fault. There was nothing he could do about it—it was all his fault, and he knew that. There was nothing he could do to bring them back; it was his fault they were gone, his fault they would never come back, his fault that they were dead. His entire fault—there was nothing he could do. It was his fault, his fault that all this death and destruction had happened, his fault that every single last resident of Langley Falls—and probably tourists, too—was dead, his fault that they'd never speak again, his fault that they'd never breathe again, his fault that they'd never live again.

His fault, and no one else's.

It was his fault—that was all there was to it. He was responsible for the deaths of several people, several people he'd known and would never have killed of his own accord. But he had—he may have done it unknowingly, but he'd done it by his own will regardless. He'd sometimes wished the more annoying ones would leave him alone—even die—but, when it came right down to it, he knew he'd never have killed them.

But now he had, and it was all his fault.

The pain was never-ending.

The tears were still flowing, the sobs were still being choked from his throat, the pain was still ringing through his mind. He knew it had been hours, but he didn't move. He could have left the area before one of his enemies homed in on him, but he didn't care.

He could survive the pain, but that had nothing to do with it.

He had killed—not on purpose, but that didn't change anything. He had killed, and if he died he knew he deserved it.

The pain would never end, and Stan knew he deserved it.

* * *

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

The teenager rushed into the town, panting hard. He gasped when the carnage hit his eyes—dead bodies everywhere, building walls splashed with blood, shrapnel littering the cement, and, among the bodies, a single person kneeling among the wreckage, tears running freely down his face.

The teenager ran forward, in front of the man. "Dad?"

He looked up. "Steve?" he choked out.

Before either knew it they were running into each other's arms.

"I thought you were dead…."

"I was at the sci-fi store in Elsworth with Snot…."

They were both sobbing now, crying into each other's shoulders.

A pause.

Steve looked up, his eyes red, his face stained with tears and water shining on his glasses. "Dad, it wasn't all your fault."

Stan considered, then nodded. He looked away briefly before turning back and enfolding his son in another hug.

The pain was gone, if only for another moment.


End file.
